PS 3503 
I .U66 
P65 
1913 
Copy 1 




JI^MBWBBiw i i 'W ili i i W^ 




AFTERGLOW 



BY 



AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 



AFTERGLOW 



A POEM 

BY 

AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 



Cover Illustration by 
ANNA BOTSFORD COMSTOCK 



The Comstock Publishing Company 
1913 



0)3 /- 






First printed in the "Bellman," March 1912 



COPYRIGHT 1913 
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 



PRESS OF W. F. HUMPHREY, GENEVA, N. T. 



©aA358G80 




FOREWORD 



LEGEND has grown up in the Dolomite Alps, in the 
Tyrol, commemorating an event which took place 
over one hundred years ago. At the present, 
Civetta is made a special point of interest to the 
sight-seer penetrating a little further than the railroad 
into the fastnesses of the high mountains to see a 
region rich in fine scenery and rich in human interest. 
The main route is one traveled by the hardy peoples of the north in the 
quest of sunshine and the sea, and over which the conquering legions of 
Rome sought i fields for new dominion. It was originally hewed 
out by the forced labor of prisoners of war, and within a century, 
repaired or rebuilt by the Austrian for a new invasion of the 
Summer South by the chilled northern races seeking health in the sun of 
Tuscony or Venice; seeking quickening of imagination in the art treasure 
of museum or in the ruins long grown over by newer cities; opening to 
generous youth the romantic lure of southern sunshine and southern story 
which ever draw them onward to the unseen always lying just over the 
horizon of a rock barrier. A return current arising in the south seeks 
health in cold of the high valleys; and a fresh vision to rekindle the 
quiescent romance of life in narrowed skies dipping down to mountain 
peaks. 

The impelling curiosity of the traveler brings diverse peoples together 
in the sequestered valley, until tradition shut in there, becomes the 
heritage of all. 

The particular legend of the poem is centered in the narrow mountain 
valley at the foot of Mount Civetta, a valley filled in by a land-slip from 
the neighbor mountain, the debris lying across the valley blocked a streeim 
and formed a lake high up in the mountains, as had been done many a 
time before, drowning a village. 

The poet. Browning-like, has caught one story from the many tragedies 
told by those who lived and lost by living. The story of one woman and 
one child buried by the avalanche; the husband's outcry against the 
unfeeling might of the mountain which had been as a tower of strength to 
them; against the God who had not helped, who "let such things be;" of 
the broken life again taken up and through long, long years of Nature's 
healing, at last, leading back to acquiescence in the prayer of the stricken 
"His will on earth be done"; seeing through the resistless power of Nature 
to the infinite peace of the All-Father's love. 

SUSANNA PHELPS GAGE. 



AFTERGLOW 

By AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 

No, no, signora, I am not too old — 

I still can swing an oar — and you are light. 

Eighty — full eighty years — and see, how strong! 

I learned to row in Venice; there ten years 

I was a gondolier. When I came back, 

I rowed upon this lake. . . , You know at first 

Only the little wild Cordevole 

Went roaring through the valley; there was then 

No lake, signora, only villages, 

Tilled fields and vineyards, and the saw-mills droned 

Loud as the river — sixty years ago. 

The water's clear today — look down — you see 

The village there below you? Down — straight down- 

The house that stands a little way apart — 

That was my house. There was beside the door 

A rose-bush growing, that I planted there 

The day our child was born, and right beside 

We marked her height each birthday, and we laughed 

Because she could not overtake the rose. 

"But some day she will have to stoop," we said, 

"To pluck the roses" — there were just two marks — 

Long, long ago they were washed out, and yet 

I see them there today as I look down. 

Shall we go on? 

'Twas sixty years ago. 
We married young, signora — we were poor 
But we were strong, and — when one loves, it seems 
Youth is too brief and sweet to wait apart 
Until one prospers. There's a savour, too. 
In hard-won bread with love to season it — 
You understand. And children as we were, 
We walked upon the mountain-tops of joy. 
Look how Civetta towers, peak on peak. 
Soft in its rosy pallor; she was pale 
For all her strength. How often I have said 
Civetta taught her cheeks their faint sweet glow. 



She was not ruddy like the other girls. ^^ 

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills," 

The priest would say, and then, "the strength of them 

"Is also His." It seemed to us we built 

Our nest within the hollow of God's hand 

There in the valley, for about us rose 

The hills like guardian angels, and we named 

The child Civetta, for the mountain seemed 

Strong as a saint to us. Yet spite of that, 

Twas Piz we held the dearest,, like a hoar 

Old kindly giant, brooding o'er the pass 

To keep out evil comers. Ah, those days! 

You would not think, seeing that silent house 

Below the water, what it used to be. 

There never was a throat so full of music 

As my Costanza's — always I could hear 

A snatch of song that told me where she was. 

Her heart was full of joy— how could it help 

But bubble into melody? And when 

She slept, it seemed the nightingale sang on 

The night through, in her stead. The little one 

Was like her mother. We had made two marks 

Beside the rose-bush. . . sixty years ago. . . , 

We had worked hard, signora, and had saved 

To buy a yoke of oxen; so I went 

Down to Belluno, for the market-day. 

The two went with me to the valley's mouth. 

For in a village at the foot of Piz 

Costanza's cousin lived, and there she said 

That they would stay the night, the earlier 

To greet me on the morrow, and we all 

Could journey home together. So we planned 

Walking together toward the valley's mouth, 

Civetta on my shoulder; and I asked 

If I should buy a kerchief for my dear, 

But she said no — I was to buy instead 

Some trinket for the child. That was her way. 

And then, because it wrung my heart to go, 

I lifted up mine eyes unto the hills 

And saw the forest-bearded face of Piz 

Bending as if he blessed us, and my heart ^ 

Was glad as at a sign from heaven. I said: 

"May God and Piz watch over you." And so — 

And so I left them at the valley's mouth. 

She took the faded kerchief from her head. 

Waving it as I went, and i could see 

The sunlight on her hair. When I no more 

Could see her face, her hair was shining still. 



And the next day I bought my oxen there, 

In the Belluno market, — comely beasts 

With gentle eyes, and on their horns I bound 

Garlands of poppies. She will clap her hands, 

I thought, and kiss them 'twixt the gentle eyes. 

And hold Civetta up to fondle them. 

And since she had forbidden me to buy 

A kerchief for her head, I bought instead 

A silver pin to wear on holy-days. 

So light of heart I was that all the way 

I laughed and sang aloud, and all the way 

I lifted up my face unto the hills 

That made me glad. But when at last I came 

In sight of home — I could not see my home, 

For Piz was gone, and that which had been Piz 

Crammed all the valley's entrance, and below 

Three villages were buried. They were there. . . . 

A neighbour told me all there was to tell — 

Little enough. A sudden rending crash, 

And all was done. I stood and could not speak. 

The knowledge fell upon me as the hill 

Fell upon them. He wept who told it me. 

I did not weep — I laughed, remembering 

How I commended them to God and Piz, 

And thus it was they had kept faith with me! 

And then he bade me take my goods and go 

Up to a higher village, for the fall 

Had dammed Cordevole, and silently 

The creeping waters rose and rose and rose. 

And then I laughed again. What use to me 

Were house or goods? I gave my goods to him, 

The pair of oxen and the silver pin; 

He had a wife — a kindly soul who nursed 

Costanza in her travail. So I turned 

Nor looked again upon my empty house; 

Turned and went back the way that I had come. . . 

But as I went, I did not lift my face. 

I hoped some mountain kindlier than the rest 

Would fall upon me, too — but none would fall — 

And all the grass was full of little flowers. 

So I went down to Venice — to the sea; 

No mountains there. 

Signora! Pardon me — 
I had not thought my tale would make you weep. 
You are too kind — all this was long ago — 
In sixty years there's time for tears to dry. 
And yet it leaves a scar; see, even now 
There's only bareness . . . yonder. Older still. 



The naked wilderness that seams Peron — 
Not all the summers of five centuries 
Have made it green again. 

I used to think 
That when I came to die, and stood at last 
Right face to face with God, I would not wait 
For Him to judge me — 'twas for me to judge. 
I would speak out: "Why did you do this thing? 
I trusted You. Why did You do this thing. 
You and the mountains, if indeed the strength 
Of them is Yours?" But since I did not die, 
I said, "I will have naught of them henceforth, 
God and the mountains. They have smitten me 
Unjustly, cowardly. I trusted them. 
And then they struck a woman and a child 
Suddenly in the darkness. Cowardly!" 
So for ten years I never went to mass 
Nor looked upon the hills. But I would stand 
Often before the crucifix and think, 
"Oh, Brother Signor Jesu, you have known 
How He betrays a trust. You trusted too, 
And He forsook you in your agony." 
I was so young, signora — I had known 
Only our people, simple, kindly, good; 
But in the city I saw other things — 
Greed, hatred and uncleanness — and I saw 
The sea . . . signora, do you know the sea? 
As year by year I saw the ships come in, 
Some prosperous and gay with little flags. 
And some ail battered, scarce escaped alive, 
And — saw the women watch for other ships 
That never came — I thought, "Here is a thing 
Cruel as God and treacherous as the hills. 
That favours or destroys just for a v/him." 
Until one day, musing as I was wont 
Before the crucifix, it came to me: 
Perchance Costanza, as the mountain fell. 
Cried out on me — and I was far away. 
Had I been near, I might have died with her, 
But saved her — no. It may be as she died 
She, too, cried out, "Thou hast forsaken me!" 
Was God as powerless as I? Did He 
Suffer like me? 

I took that afternoon 
No passengers; ! rowed out all alone 
And moored my boat, and went where I could look 



Straight out to sea; and all night long I lay 

Upon the sands, and tried to think it clear. 

And when the morning broke, I saw the sea 

Shining before me, and I did not fear 

Nor hate it, for at last I understood 

There was in it no malice and no love; 

Indifferent, it fulfilled its destiny. 

And if its tempests rent the waves alone 

Or beat a ship to driftwood, it nor knew 

Nor cared. If men must needs go forth on it. 

Theirs be the peril, theirs the profit, too. 

The lives of men are nothing to the sea. 

The lives of men are nothing to the hills. 

Their strength is not of God, but all their own. 

Ten years it was since I had said a prayer. 

But there, beside the sea, in the pale dawn — 

Twas a gray dawn and cold— I stood and prayed. 

"Lord God," I said, "forgive me for my hate. 

You who have suffered, You can understand 

And know the cry of pain. You saw Your son 

Slain by a thing pitiless as the sea. 

Blind as the hills, and You could give no help. 

Lord God, for my own grief I had no tears, 

But for Your grief, and mine, and all the world's." . 

So I left Venice, and went back again. 

There in Belluno, all men spoke to me 

Kindly, a little hushed, as if afraid; 

They thought I had been mad. As I went back 

I neither spoke nor sang, but walked erect. 

Head up, and looked the mountains in the face. 

I could not hate them any more, you see — 

They knew not what they did. I understood 

How Cristo could forgive upon the cross. 

It seemed to me I walked, my hand in God's, 

And sometimes as we went, I thought He wept 

And that I whispered, "Lord, be comforted; 

This thing must be." And so I came again 

Into the valley. All was as you see. 

Again the grass was full of little flowers. 

For it was spring; the water was not clear 

But green and turbid from the melting snows, 

And I saw nothing. I was glad of that; 

One learns to bear a little at a time. 

The folk had taken up their life again. 

As one must do, and all about the lake 

I saw again the vineyards and tilled fields 

And heard the saw-mills drone. My neighbour came 



And made me free of all his goods; he said 

My yoke of oxen so had prospered him 

That he could halve his farm with me. His wife 

Was with him, and I saw the silver pin 

Set in her^hair. She marked my eyes on it 

And made to take it out — down her kind face 

The tears were running — but I stayed her hand. 

It did not give me pain to see it there. 

I made my home with them, but would not take 

Aught of his land. What did I want of land? 

I had forgotten how to hold a plow. 

I built myself a boat, and back and forth 

I rowed upon the lake, ferrying folk 

And burdens, as they came and called to me. 

And slowly, day by day, the water cleared; 

First I could see the tree-tops, then the tops 

Of chimneys . . . and at last I saw the house. . 

I thought the rose-bush still was by the door 

Turned to a water-weed. Only two marks — 

It may be there are roses where she is. 

And in the winter when I could not row 

I joined the timberers on the mountain-side. 

They marvelled at me, for I had no fear. 

What should I fear? And often in the snow 

Men came to deadly hurt, and those who wept 

Would turn to me, knowing I understood. 

Then would I say to them, "Be comforted. 

This thing must be — " as I had said to God. 

But though I prayed, I could not go to mass 

And hear the priest, who did not understand. 

Mock at Him, calling Him all powerful. 

Master of all the world — who could not save 

His son, nor aught that any man held dear. 

My neighbour's youngest child I loved the best; 

Her eyes were like Civetta's, and she sang 

Always about her play, and as she grew. 

About her work. There was a lad she loved; 

An honest lad — we timbered on the hills 

Together in the winter, and one learns 

To read a man, in that white loneliness. 

And on a day, a dead bough sharp with ice 

Fell on his head; a little while it seemed 

That he was mad, and then he fell asleep 

And breathed, but did not waken. Through the snow 

I bore him to the village in my arms. 

And when I saw my darling in the door 

I strove to say to her, "Be comforted. 



DEC 15 191' 



This thing must be — " But I could only say 

"My child, my child!" At last there came a night 

It seemed that he must die; her hand in mine 

We sat beside him, and the clock ticked loud 

Upon the wall — the minutes seemed to trip 

Upon each others' heels, so fast they ran. 

I cannot tell you how it came to me, 

But all at once I spoke: "This is not all, 

The grief and dumb endurance. There is more — 

There is a hidden meaning in it all. 

And what for us is loneliness and tears 

Shall blossom in the hearts of the unborn 

To beauty, for we suffer not in vain 

Although we cannot see the end, not now 

Nor ever, with these eyes. Since God is love. 

Although His ways be strange, they all lead home. 

The patient wrestling of our shaken hearts, 

The pitiless sea, the cruel strength of these 

The hills — are His. His will for earth be done." 

And she beside me, slipping to her knees. 

Laid her hot forehead on my hands and said, 

"His will for earth be done" — but all at once 

He stirred— and she crept near, and raised herself 

And looked into his face — and I could see 

His opening eyes, and hear a whisper, faint 

As falling embers, but in his own voice — 

"Costanza. . . ." 'Twas her name. So I went out 

Under the stars and left those two alone. 

See, 'tis their chimney smoking; and that house 
With all the roses and the little ones 
About the door, is his — their eldest boy's — 
The boy they named for me. So many homes 
I can call mine! 

Here is the shore at last; 
Just one more stroke. 
I have not wearied you? 



